


The Broken Circle

by shadow_lover



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8060524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: The Fade pulls at Surana every time he closes his eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emile/gifts).



> Thank you for requesting these two! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> And thank you to my beta, phoxinus.

The Fade pulls at Surana every time he closes his eyes. There is no silence; every lull echoes with remembered snarls. He tries not to blink as they descend the tower. He hardly hears the First Enchanter’s terse questions at his side, or Wynn’s answers from right behind him.

When they stumble into entry hall, templars and mages alike bristle into chaos—and Alistair, whom they left with the apprentices when Wynn joined the party. The companions split off. Alistair joins Wynn to help the ragged mages down to the waiting healers, while Cousland and Leliana take off with a squad of templars to search the rest of the tower for survivors. 

Surana watches Cousland for a moment. The sight of him is grounding, even as he envies the easy way the human navigates chaos. For all his magic, Surana could never light up a room like that.

In recent days, he has found himself drawn like a moth to that light. And he has thought, perhaps, Cousland might be drawn to him too. 

_Enough idle fancies. If he’s half as smart as his mabari, today’s taught him to stay well away from people like you._

He has to settle affairs with the First Enchanter and Knight Commander. He’s grateful when Alistair appears at his shoulder, as if the former templar’s presence lends legitimacy to his words. But it’s Surana who has the expertise here, and he can’t let himself feel the terror of that responsibility. He tells Irving and Greagoir the circle is safe, and the words are ash on his tongue.

No demons remain, but the circle has never been safe. It never will be.

Once he has Irving’s assurance the mages will first help at Redcliff and later rally against the darkspawn, the day blurs. Everything is a rush of orders and duties and cries of pain until Cousland stands before him, so close Surana has to crane upwards to meet his eyes. His smile is still easy, but Surana has learned that the rogue always smiles in public. It’s some mask of nobility, and Surana understands that. He used to smile for the templars too.

“Things are settled here,” Cousland says. “Well, as settled as they’ll get. We should head out unless you’d like to stay the night here.” By the set of his strong jaw, Cousland does not want to stay, but he’s willing if Surana wants to.

 _As if._ Surana is too exhausted to laugh. “We’ve an hour left of daylight. Let’s spend it on the road.”

*

Surana throws himself into setting up camp. The mundane, physical work is comforting. In recent nights, he’s dared to use magic to set up his tent and light the fire. It’s thrilling to use his power for such trifles, with neither approval nor supervision. But tonight, with fire and demon-song searing his memory—with Wynn’s impassive presence across the clearing—he raises his tent the ordinary way, and lights the fire with flint and trembling hands.

Morrigan keeps to herself, as do Bodahn and Sandal, but the rest of them take turns feeding the group. It’s Leliana and Cousland’s turn tonight. Surana barely has to speak to the others; he takes his portion off to the edge of the firelight. Not far enough away to draw attention to his absence, but out of sight enough that nobody attempts to draw him into conversation. He isn’t fit for company; if he speaks, he will shatter.

Cousland watches him closely. Any other night, his heart might have fluttered at the attention—the force of his charisma is dizzying—but tonight he keeps his eyes low. He knows what Cousland must be thinking. They have all seen what happens when mages falter, and doubts must grow in Cousland’s mind. They are already fully fledged in Surana’s heart.

*

He holds it together until darkness is truly fallen. Then he chances one spell. The magic grates against his frayed senses, but he needs this: a silencing charm on his tent.

And as soon as his trembling fingers fasten the flap shut, he falls to his knees in relief. He hunches over, face screwed up, and he still can’t scream. He doesn’t know if he has ever screamed— _lower your voice, you’ll make the Templars nervous—hold your tongue, elf—shut the fuck up_ —and his breath is nothing but a thin, hitching whine. His fingers dig into the floor of the tent, nails scraping against the thick fabric, and his shoulders ache. He locks in on himself, head hanging, trying, still, in vain, to muffle his sobs.

He had come so close to losing everything he has ever known. He has already lost most of it. So many lives are lost, and lost with them any vestige of trust that had once persisted between the templars and mages of Kinloch Hold.

Surana can’t breathe. When he blinks, a twisted form nears. Half-known features transfigure into grotesquery. Claws stretch where there should be hands. Abomination. He can’t breathe.

Low, rough, steady voice: _reinforcements_. He doesn’t know what he fears most. Demons, mages, templars—perhaps he fears none so much as he fears himself. He can’t breathe.

He kneels in the darkness and shakes and shakes and shakes until, his fear exhausted, something loosens just enough in his chest. His cheeks are wet but he can breathe without whimpering. 

He sleeps. He knows he sleeps only because then someone is beside his bedroll and touching his shoulder softly, murmuring something indefinable.

Surana recognizes Cousland at once. The man’s presence is unmistakable: such brilliance laced with such dark shadows. No man has ever been so antithetical to the taint, yet here he is, a fractured star.

Surana sits, rubbing his face. “Is it my turn for watch?”

“Yes,” Cousland says as he stands. He offers a hand. “What’s the spell on your tent?”

Surana takes the hand because Cousland’s skin is so warm and he’ll take any excuse for touch. He’s unaccustomed to relying on others, but leaning on Cousland always seems so natural. He lets go once he has his feet. “Sometimes I talk in my sleep.” He lifts his hand to dispel the enchantment. “The charm’s just so the rest of you don’t have to hear me babbling.”

He follows Cousland from the tent and tries not to stumble. The ache of it all is bone-deep. It will be good to stand watch. He needs a purpose and firelight to stave off his thoughts.

Cousland turns to him and says just, “Well, I’m.” He clenches his jaw. He’s staring at Surana with that look on his face: that _something’s wrong but I’m keeping cool here_ look.

“What is it?” Surana fights to keep his voice even. He doesn’t know if he has the energy to handle a crisis. _I have to._ He’s about to start the deep-breathing cycle to ground his magic when suddenly Cousland is right up in his space. There’s a warm hand curving over his shoulder, and his concentration shatters.

“I’m sorry,” Cousland says. “You should go back to sleep. I’ve got the watch.”

The words don’t process at first. Then they do. Surana flushes hot and knocks the hand away. He steps back, snarling. “Maker take you.”

His nerves stretch so thin already that this condescension may drive him over the edge. _Of course he doesn’t trust me now—give the mage one moment of weakness, and he’ll be hosting demons before you can blink._ It’s bad enough to get that from the templars; it’s worse from Cousland. He thought they trusted each other.

His mouth opens, but before he can snap, Cousland just says, “Surana.” The syllables drop through his fury like an anchor through dark water. His name has never sounded so soft on another’s lips. Surana breathes in deeply, fighting for control as Cousland continues gently. Inexorably. “I promise I’m saying this because I respect you, but Surana. You look like shit.”

This time, Surana does laugh. Nobody else is awake to hear the edge of hysteria. “Probably. But I’ll be fine. Look—you don’t have to stay up, all right? We’re all tired, but I can pull my weight on watch.”

The touch on his cheek is so light, he thinks he imagines it. But no, Cousland is right there, so much brighter than the firelight, and Surana is struck with the sudden, unbearable urge to surrender. To take that warmth for himself. He resists, and fixes his gaze on the rogue’s leather boots.

“You deserve my honesty,” Cousland says softly. “Could give me the same? Look me in the eyes and tell me, can you stand watch now?”

Honesty. Openness. Trust. Surana has spent his life enclosed, but perhaps a broken circle is not only a failure. He looks up. “I can’t.” And then—because he’s hit pathetic rock bottom already—because in for a bronze, in for a gold—because the firelight’s just gleaming like magic in Cousland’s hair—he says, “I can’t sleep, though. So if you won’t leave the watch to me, I may as well stay with you.”

Is it usual for humans outside the circle to stand so near to each other? To touch each other so gently? Surana doesn’t know, and yet here they are. A question hangs trembling between them. It has hung between them, dark and dreamlike, for weeks, and now he breathes it in and it flutters in his lungs. It is newer and brighter and so much more fragile than anything he has ever tasted. He is too tired to be afraid of a fragile thing like this.

“Damn it, Surana,” Cousland breathes. His eyes shine, and he looks at Surana like he is wonderful instead of broken. “Do you know what you do to me?”

“I don’t know,” Surana says. “You should probably explain.”

Cousland’s thumb skates feather-light along his cheekbone. Surana gives into the hot, instinctive pull and closes the space between them. He curls one hand against Cousland’s neck and asks, “Can I?”

Cousland answers with a kiss.

It’s warmer than he ever imagined: something so real and solid it can hold him to this world. Head spinning, he groans and clasps Cousland’s neck to hold him close. 

When Cousland pulls away, the air rushing into his lungs is cold as ice. Surana whines and tries to tug him back, but he’s caught in callused hands that wrap easily around his slender wrists. Cousland brings one forward and ducks to press a kiss to the delicate skin above his pulse, and Surana’s knees nearly buckle as it melts through his veins.

Surana’s breath is shallow, and he thinks his heart will beat right out of his chest. He has never dared hope for a kiss like that; for someone to look at him like _that_. When that blinding smile spreads again over Cousland’s face, he feels such a sudden release of tension, the weeks on the road and the hours of terror unwinding from his battered muscles.

He hesitates to accept it, and can’t help a murmur. “You know what I am. Is that…”

“You’re a mage,” Cousland says, still grinning. “An unfairly pretty one. Now, sit with me?”

Surana nods and allows himself be pulled along. Cousland’s hand is still so warm around his wrist. He feels so light, he might drift away without that touch.

There is a ridge of rough boulders near the path out of camp. Cousland sits down to lean against one. Surana has barely knelt at his side when Cousland has an arm around him, tugging him closer until he’s pressed up all the way against him. Surana twists upwards, seeking another kiss, and this one is light and warm like sunshine.

This time, Surana pulls away; not breaking, but an intermission. As if the kiss is not yet over, but will continue at any moment. Whenever Surana has the energy to hold his head up on his neck. He leans his head back on Cousland’s chest and feels the strong arm momentarily tighten around him.

He might now, he thinks, be safe to dream.


End file.
